


Stage Fright

by Augustus



Series: Just an Act [2]
Category: The Bill
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-07-03
Updated: 2000-07-03
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:43:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Augustus/pseuds/Augustus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The follow-up to the events in "Just An Act". John and Rod have gone back to the Skase abode...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ONE: John Boulton

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Very minor spoiler warnings for "Ticking Clocks", "Badlands" and "A Question of Trust". Which aired an extremely long time ago, but still.  
> Author Note, July 2000: Somehow along the way, John's house became Rod's house. So shoot me.  
> Author Note, January 2015: Contains grown men thinking like teenage girls. You have been warned.

This room screams "Skase". From the intentionally impressive books lying 'casually' on the coffee table, to the leather jacket discarded on a sagging chair, it couldn't better represent its owner. Hell, it even _smells_ like him. That spicy, enticing scent that I really _must_ identify before the not knowing drives me insane.

Perhaps I should ask him.

Or would that make me sound like some kind of kinky pervert? "My name is Detective Sergeant John Boulton, and I go around sniffing Detective Constables..." It's not a serial thing, though. It's only him.

There's a photo of him on the side table beside the couch I'm sitting in. That's definitely a woman standing beside him. I'm a detective. It's my job to notice these things. Blonde; surprise, surprise. What is it with Rod and his blonde bimbos?

Funny, I don't remember him talking about anyone serious enough to photographically grace the Skase bachelor pad. Selective hearing, perhaps. 

I wonder if I've got my signals crossed. Perhaps she's a current flame. Perhaps this is all just one cruel joke. Perhaps he does this to poor, unsuspecting Detective Sergeants all the time.  
Prick.

How could he do this to me? Drag me here just to take his pleasure from my humiliation... God, it's no wonder that he's always irritated me. 

Unless he's serious.

Oh, God, what if he _is_ serious? I'm not sure I can cope with this. An interlude is all very well, but I'm in way too deep already. There's some sort of gravitational pull around this man. It might only affect me. Probably some weird chemical I have an excess of in my blood stream.

That's it. It's a disease, that's what it is. I shall sell my story to 'Hello!' magazine for millions and I shall never have to work again. I think I'll call it Acute Rodneyitis. Yeah. That has a nice ring to it.

I have to know who the woman is. There’s no point in sitting here hoping if he’s just playing me for a fool.

“Rod?” I call, my voice coming out sounding as though it belongs to someone else.

“Yeah?” His voice echoes in the kitchen, where he’s busy getting us the teas I asked for, in order to stall for time.

“Who’s the woman in the photo beside the couch?”

Rod turns up at the door to the kitchen. “What, the blonde?”

I try to keep my voice even. “That’s the one.”

He grins. Obviously I haven’t been as convincing as I had hoped to be. “Jealous, John?”

“No.” My reply is even _less_ convincing.

“Well, she’s my sister,” Rod laughs. “Her name’s Joanne. Or is that too clichéd an excuse for you to believe?”

“I believe you.”

He smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling enticingly. “Tea’s almost ready. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Okay.”

Once I’m left alone again, I have another look at the photo. Now that I know to look for it, I _can_ see quite a strong similarity between Rod and this Joanne in the picture. She’s a lot fairer than he is – possibly the work of a peroxide bottle - but they have the same nose, and the same eyes. It works a lot better on him. Of course, I could be a little biased...

I really must stop jumping to conclusions. It’s got me into trouble enough times with my job, let alone in my social life.

I shrug off my jacket, finally beginning to warm up from the walk back to Rod’s house. As I do so, my radio falls out onto the couch.

“Shit!” I exclaim, causing Rod to come running.

“What’s wrong?” The concern in his voice warms me somewhere deep within my chest.

“What with... uh... everything else... I completely forgot to radio the nick to let them know the obbo was a bust.”

He grins sheepishly. “Oops. I didn’t even think about that.”

“Understandable. Oh well, I’ll just radio through now. They don’t have to know it’s been half an hour since we lost Barratt and Fielding.”

“Which means half an hour more overtime for us, right, Sarge?” Rod asks, grinning evilly.

“Just a side benefit,” I grin back. “My approach to this job has always been one of ‘what they don’t know, won’t hurt them’.”

“I’ve noticed,” Rod remarks dryly over his shoulder as he vanishes back into the kitchen. “I’ve been on the _end_ of that approach a few times myself.”

I wonder what he could have meant by that remark? Am I meant to take it as the lighthearted comment it sounded like, or as a greater criticism on my work ethic? 

If only Skase realised that I would never intentionally keep him in the dark – except for where my feelings for him were concerned. Rod’s one of the few people in this job whom I actually have an ounce of respect for. I’d tell him anything and everything... if only he would ask.

I pick up my radio and idly toss it from one hand to the other while I work out what to say to whomever answers the call. I can’t very well tell the truth. Somehow I don’t think Deakin would be at all interested in an excuse that involves me kissing his current golden boy. 

And besides, if tonight turns out to be a one off, I’m going to be in a bad enough state as it is, even without all of uniform teasing me in the halls about certain indiscretions with my inferior officers. I bet George Garfield would _love_ to have this to hold against me. 

Well, he’s just not going to be handed it by me. I can’t control Rodney – hell, no-one can – but I can at least make sure that the news doesn’t escape from my mouth. 

No, as far as Sun Hill nick is going to know, Rod and I lost our targets in the crowd.


	2. TWO: Communication from D.S. Boulton to Sun Hill Police Station. Saturday Morning – 12:07am

BOULTON: D.S. Boulton to Sierra Oscar, are you receiving?

HOLLIS: What’s up, Sarge?

BOULTON: Just calling in to say that tonight’s obbo was a bust. Rod and I lost our subject in the crowd.

HOLLIS: Received. Deakin’s not going to be too happy about this, is he, Sarge?

BOULTON: Well, I wouldn’t know, would I, Reg? You’d have to ask _him_ that.

HOLLIS: He’s not here, though, is he?

BOULTON: Yeah well, Reg, when you get to be a D.I. you don’t have to hang around outside in the middle of the night freezing your arse off any more. 

HOLLIS: I thought you went to that gay club tonight, Sarge.

__(There is a deep sigh from Boulton.)_ _

BOULTON: Yes, _tonight_ I was. 

HOLLIS: __(Snickering)__ See anyone you fancied, Sarge?

__(There is a short silence.)_ _

BOULTON: Of course not, Reg. Look, I have to go. Someone just came into the gents and I don’t want to blow my cover.

HOLLIS: Right you are, Sarge. Enjoy the rest of your night.

__(There is a low, muttered comment from Boulton. It sounds an awful lot like “smarmy git”.)_ _

\- End transmission –


	3. THREE: Rodney Skase

It felt eminently wrong to have brought my superior back to my home for less than innocent reasons. I certainly hadn’t set out for last night’s operation with that intention in mind. Then again, if I’m going to start listing all the things that weren’t part of Deakin’s earlier briefing, I hadn’t planned on kissing him either.

Plans change.

It’s not like I haven’t thought about Boulton in this way before. Hell, it’s crossed my mind many a time when I’m sitting at my desk watching the office get on with its work around me. The thoughts hit me even harder whenever I see him in action. There’s no wonder surrounding the fact that a lot of my fellow work mates call him “Robocop” behind his back. I’ve never seen another cop with greater dedication to the job. I mean, I want to get out there and catch crims, sure, but I just don’t have the commitment that he has.

I’m not sure that I’d _want_ to.

He’s a good looking man, too. I’m certainly not going to deny that. He seemed to wrap that scrawny blonde-tipped profiler around his little finger during that time she spent annoying the hell out of the rest of us. I think she’s out of the picture, now. 

I hope she is.

Recently, it’s been more than just my usual watching, however, as much as I try to deny it. There’s something more there than just that familiar old feeling of unsatisfied lust. Although _that’s_ certainly still there too. Oh my _God_ it’s still there. I just have to look at the bloke for my insides to turn into the proverbial mush. And kissing him...

I doubt that I would have been able to stop if he _had_ told me to.

But he didn’t. I can’t believe it, but he didn’t! He seemed to be enjoying it quite a bit too, although I’ve never been a fantastic judge of that sort of thing. The amount of times that I’ve got hold of the absolute wrong end of it with women has got to be into the triple digits by now. Perhaps it’ll be different with Boulton, though. Perhaps the communication will be less of a mine field when it’s another man I’m trying to understand.

Hell, I don’t know. I’ve not done this before.

It’s silly, really. I mean, how much more of a cliché could I be living? Falling for my superior officer, of all people. If it wasn’t for the whole issue of him being a bloke, this could be right out of a Mills and Boon novel. Although, I’m not exactly sure I’d ever be cast in the part of blushing heroine. I don’t _do_ blushing.

Although, I _have_ noticed that John’s not exactly a stranger to it. 

Sometimes I wonder whether there’s anything I _haven’t_ noticed about Boulton. It feels as though I’ve catalogued every last detail about him. He has a small, dark mole just behind his right ear. You can only see it from the right angle. There’s something about it that makes you want to kiss it.

Or perhaps that’s just me.

I don’t know what to do about this. I feel as though I’ve come down with some new, previously undiscovered disease. Perhaps I could make my millions through identifying it to the public. The only problem is that I doubt it’s an ailment suffered by anyone other than myself. And I severely doubt that it’s communicable. 

Actually, I hope it isn’t. I’ve always been the jealous type. 

As I pour hot water into the two cups in front of me, I can’t help but smile happily. Although he denied it, I’m pretty sure that Boulton was motivated by a bit of jealousy himself when asking about the photo of my sister. It’s a good feeling. I like the thought of Robocop being a little less immovable than he seems. It makes me feel almost as though I have a chance with the man. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

I can hear him talking into his radio now in the other room. Although I can’t make out the words, I have a feeling that it might be Hollis who he’s talking to, going simply by the tone of his voice. There aren’t many of us around the station who can stand old Reg, but Boulton’s less tolerant of his idiocy than most. I don’t blame him. The bloke’s a prat. And as for his hair...

It sounds like he’s finished on his radio.

“Sarge?” I call. “How do you have it?”

“White and one,” comes the reply.

It’s funny but I wouldn’t have picked him for one to take sugar with his tea. He presents such an image of being the ultimate “hard man” of the police force that milk and sugar just don’t seem to fit. 

I fix our drinks, dropping an extra teaspoon full of sugar into my own cup, before spending an inordinate amount of time putting the makings away and cleaning up the kitchen. All of a sudden, I don’t want to go in there. There’s so much at stake. It’s not just my hormones and my ego; it’s my career as well. 

What if he’s just playing with me? I took such a risk in kissing him and he seemed to respond, but who knows, really? He could be quietly chucking away to himself in my lounge right at this moment. He’s probably laughing about how easily I’ve fallen for his little prank. I’m not stupid. I know there are much more popular people around the Sun Hill nick. I’ve got up quite a few people’s noses in my time. But I’ve never counted Boulton amongst the most offended. In fact, we usually see eye to eye on most things. But just because I can’t think of a motive for him to humiliate me, that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have one.

I adore the guy, but I’m not blind to the fact that he’s a bastard.

I need to decide what I want from this, but at the moment I’m still trying to deny the fact that I want anything at all. 

For Christ’s sake, I can’t believe that I’m this terrified. I come up against things _much_ worse than this every day in my career. I won’t let this annoying case of stage fright beat me.

I pick up our full cups and – plucking up all my courage – carry them into the lounge room.


	4. FOUR: The perils of small talk. A conversation between D.S. John Boulton and D.C. Rod Skase

BOULTON: That’s a good cuppa. 

SKASE: Thanks.

BOULTON: What sort of tea do you use?

SKASE: Harrods.

BOULTON: Ooh! Swanky high-class stuff!

SKASE: _(Shrugging)_ I was brought up on the stuff.

BOULTON: I have to say, I’m never going to get used to these weaker Southern brews.

SKASE: _(Grinning ... he’s heard this sort of story many times before)_ Nothing’s as good down here as it is up north, is it, Sarge?

BOULTON: John.

SKASE: ...eh?

BOULTON: Call me John. Please. We’re not at work now.

SKASE: Okay Sar... I mean, John.

BOULTON: I guess that feels rather strange.

SKASE: Yeah. Although, I _do_ usually think of you as John inside my head.

BOULTON: _(Pleased)_ You do?

SKASE: Yeah.

BOULTON: Just don’t call me that around the others. They’d be making stuff up before we could take a breath.

SKASE: Will they _need_ to make it up?

BOULTON: I don’t know... What do you think?

SKASE: I don’t know. It’s not like most of them have any imagination to speak of. I mean, look at Deakin. He has the chance of a lifetime to check out how the other half lives on this whole obbo tonight, but instead he chooses to stay at home.

BOULTON: You know, I think he knows the ol’ Gilded Cage a lot better than he would like to admit.

SKASE: You think?

BOULTON: I’d be willing to bet on it.

SKASE: Who would have thought...

BOULTON: _(Carefully)_ So, you haven’t noticed that he has a real thing for you?

SKASE: _(Shocked and not a little disgusted)_ You’re joking, right? Please tell me you’re joking, John!

BOULTON: _(Smiling a little at the sound of his first name on Rod’s lips)_ I wish I could. It makes me as jealous as hell.

SKASE: _(Smiling a little himself at this admission)_ Yeah?

BOULTON: _(Shyly)_ Yeah.

SKASE: I’m flattered.

BOULTON: Why does that sound like a gentle put down?

SKASE: It wasn’t meant to.

BOULTON: Oh.

SKASE: Deakin, eh?

BOULTON: Yeah.

SKASE: D’ya reckon this’ll help my chances at promotion?

BOULTON: Only if you shag him or something.

SKASE: _(Angrily)_ And you think I’d do that, do you?

BOULTON: No. Well...

SKASE: Well?

BOULTON: You wouldn’t, would you?

SKASE: Of course not! What do you take me for?

BOULTON: So that’s not why you asked me here?

SKASE: I don’t even think that question is worth an answer.

BOULTON: Sorry.

SKASE: Yeah, well, it’s nice to know that you think I’d be able to prostitute myself for my job.

BOULTON: I didn’t say that.

SKASE: No? It certainly sounded like you did.

BOULTON: I didn’t mean it to. Sorry. I guess I’m just nervous. Stage fright or something.

SKASE: Yeah, well, I guess I can understand that.

BOULTON: I’m ballsing this whole thing up so badly...

SKASE: I don’t think either of us is doing particularly well.

BOULTON: _(Managing a small smile)_ Perhaps we should start all over again.

SKASE: _(Grinning again, finally)_ Definitely.

BOULTON: That’s a good cuppa...


	5. FIVE: John Boulton

This is going badly. In fact, I might even be so bold as to say that it’s going _dreadfully_. 

I can’t believe that I managed to offend Rod so horribly within a few minutes of attempting to talk to him. Honestly, I think my foot _lives_ in my mouth. Although, he’s not exactly innocent of that charge himself...

I think he’s forgiven me. I hope so. I certainly didn’t mean to suggest that he would prostitute himself to Deakin to further his career. It was just that, once the idea was planted within my mind, it seemed to make a hell of a lot more sense than Rod bringing me back here because he _liked_ me. I mean, this man could get anyone he wanted. Why would he give me a second glance – let alone invite me into his home – without an ulterior motive?

“Look, Rod,” I begin. “About before...”

He smiles wryly. “What’s say we forget all about that little conversation?”

I wish I could let it drop that easily, but I know that I’ll never be able to forgive myself if I do.

“I just want to say something first,” I press.

He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, go on,” he nods finally.

“I just want to say that I would never – deliberately – try to suggest that you could ever prostitute yourself for your work. It was just...”

I pause, wondering whether I really want to be this honest. I’m encouraged to continue by the warm look in Skase’s eyes.

“It was just because I couldn’t believe you’d actually like me for myself,” I finish all in a rush.  
I notice a flicker of surprise in Rod’s eyes.

“Why not?” he asks curiously.

The corner of my mouth twitches in a wry smile. “That’s a silly question, isn’t it?” I ask incredulously. “I mean, pretty much everyone hates me at Sun Hill by now.”

“I don’t hate you,” Rod says simply.

“They all think I’m bent,” I go on, ignoring his last comment. “I think Don Beech is the only one who doesn’t think so. And I’m _positive_ they still blame me for what happened to Dave Quinnan.”

“I don’t, and I don’t,” Rod replies, grinning slightly. “We all bend the rules a little when it suits us to do so. It’s just that you arrived at the nick with a reputation for being a little feisty, so naturally all the goody-goodies around the place are going to be watching your every move. And as for Dave Quinnan, that sort of thing happens all the time in our line of work. If he can’t accept that, then maybe he’s not cut out for the job.”

I can’t help but grin stupidly back at him. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome. Now do you believe that I could be interested in you beyond nefarious reasons?” 

“Not really,” I shrug. “But I guess that’s just me.”

He smiles evilly. It does something to my insides that doesn’t feel altogether bad.

“What would I have to do to convince you?” he asks, discarding his empty coffee cup on the floor and moving over to sit on the couch next to me.

I blink, those signals too clear for even someone as dense as myself to be able to miss.

“Uh... I... I don’t know,” I stammer, attempting a weak smile myself. “I guess you could continue what you started back at the Gilded Cage.”

“Yeah?” he asks softly, taking my own cup from my hand and placing it next to the photo of him and his sister on the table beside the couch.

“Yeah.”

The smile is beginning to come a little easier now. It’s like we’ve been thrust back into the game, and the game is one thing I feel comfortable within the boundaries of. It’s only when you place me on a couch in a strange house, trying unsuccessfully to make small talk with the man of my dreams that I really begin to flounder.

The man of my dreams. What a strange phrase that is. But if there were really such a thing, then Rodney would have to be it. Especially in these leather trousers he’s wearing tonight. Those things ought to be illegal. I certainly doubt that there’s any sort of illegal drug out there that could affect my blood pressure in such a way. Perhaps I could have a word with Brownlow when I go into work on Monday.

Then again, with last night’s little cock-up, I’ll probably be too busy being bawled out by good ol’ D.I. Deakin. 

No pun intended. 

“And how exactly would I go about doing that?” he asks now.

He widens his eyes and looks at me in such a manner that I feel as though I’m about to melt right through the fabric of the couch. I’m not usually one to go for blue eyes, but there’s something about _his_ eyes that makes me want to change my ways. It’s a blue with extraordinary character, as changeable as my own hazel, and yet infinitely more appealing to me. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” I grin, once I remember how to string syllables together to form words and sentences. “You could certainly start by moving a little closer...”

“Hmmm...” he muses, eyes giving away the fact that it’s all just another scene in this act we’ve been playing out all night. “That sounds like an awful lot of effort...”

“Surely I’m worth it?” I throw back.

“Yeah... perhaps.”

The glint in those eyes is positively evil, now. He’s not going to let me get anywhere without a fight.

“Only perhaps?” I smirk, knowing full well that it’s one of my more attractive expressions.

The look on his own face would suggest that it’s not a fact that has gone unnoticed by Skase. “Oh _hell_ no,” he says finally, and suddenly he’s almost sitting right in my lap.

I can feel his thigh pressing warm against my own, and the scent of his cologne is overwhelming again – and in only the best sense of the term.

I can’t help it. I just have to ask before I lose the power of speech altogether. “What are you wearing?” I ask shyly. “It’s Calvin Klein, isn’t it.”

“Obsession,” he nods, grinning. “But you can’t change the subject _that_ easily, John!”

I love the sound of my name when he says it. Hell, I love the sound of _anything_ when he says it.

“I wasn’t trying to change the subject,” I admit. “It’s just I’ve been trying to work out the scent all night.”

“Well now you know,” Rod smiles. “And you can transfer all of that attention back to me!”

“My attention has been on you all night and you know it!” I exclaim.

“I know.”

And with that, he leans in and his lips reclaim mine. And all attention is refocused on the sensation of his kiss.


	6. SIX: Random Thoughts. Documentary of a Kiss

BOULTON: Oh my God.

SKASE: Oh my God.

BOULTON: Oh. My . _God_!

SKASE: Oh. My. _God_!

BOULTON: It wasn’t this good in the Gilded Cage. Sure, it was good – it was _very_ good – but I don’t think it was _this_ good.

SKASE: I hope he thinks I’m an okay kisser...

BOULTON: Sooo good.

SKASE: ...Because he’s fantastic! _This_ is fantastic!

BOULTON: I hope I’m doing okay here...

SKASE: Really fantastic.

BOULTON: He would tell me if I was crap. I’m sure he would. Well, I hope so, anyway.

SKASE: How am I ever going to look at this guy in the office again without thinking about throwing him onto one of the desks and kissing him until I died from lack of oxygen?

BOULTON: There’s no way that I would ever be able to order Rod around after this. Hell, I’m not his superior. I’m not even his equal. I just can’t turn a man to liquid like he can.

SKASE: Forget rank, if John asked me to walk on fire I would do it just because he had asked me to do so. Hell, I feel as though I’m _already_ walking on fire! I’m burning up. In a good way. Sergeant or not, this man can order me around as much as he wants!

BOULTON: I wonder if it would be too pathetic if I bought a bottle of CK Obsession just so I could smell it all day long...

SKASE: I wonder what that cologne _he’s_ wearing is. He asked me about mine, so I guess it would be okay for me to ask. I wouldn’t want it to seem as though I was more interested in smelling him than kissing him, though...

BOULTON: God, I really _do_ go around sniffing Detective Constables. Well – at least I go around sniffing _this_ Detective Constable.

SKASE: I don’t think that it’s possible for me to be more interested in _anything_ than kissing him. Well...

BOULTON: I could do this all night. Not that there aren’t other things that I’d like to do...

SKASE: I wonder if it’s bad workplace etiquette to shag your superiors...

BOULTON: I wonder if it’s bad workplace etiquette to shag your inferiors...

SKASE: I suppose there’s no reason that anyone would have to find out...

BOULTON: We wouldn’t have to tell anyone, though, would we?

SKASE: That’s if he _wants_ to shag me...

BOULTON: It’s not like it’ll be an issue anyway…..

SKASE: Oh my _God_ , he’s good at this.


	7. SEVEN: Rodney Skase

If I had realised that kissing Boulton would feel this damn good, I think I would have done so sooner. Never mind shyness or rank or even whether or not he was up for it. This would be worth _anything_. Hell yeah.

But you know, now that it's happening, somehow it's not enough anymore. And I'm not just talking about sex here, because it's gone beyond that, without me ever intending it to do so. And yes, I want him that way, but I want something more too. Something so much more.

Something I could never request.

Yet it's this that consumes my mind now, not what's happening at this moment. It's not what his hands are doing with the buttons of my shirt, or what mine are doing to the zipper of his jeans. It's not the feel of his hot mouth on mine or of the battle of our tongues. It's not even the heat of his body pressed tight against my own. 

It's something else.

And it's thoughts and not actions that are beginning to consume me; emotions and not sensations that are taking away my control. It's as though my resolve has abandoned me for good and areas of my mind that I thought I had closed and nailed planks across have been ripped wide opened and exposed to things they can’t possibly defend against. People they can’t possibly defend themselves against.

Him.

Oh dear god, him.

And this is not good. I should be pushing him away; telling him to get out of my mind. But I won't. I can't. And I'm not sure that I want to. 

And his body is just as I have imagined it, now that it's suddenly made its way into my sight and not just my hopeful imaginings late at night when I can try to pretend that it's just me being tired, and not due to any real underlying emotions. It's certainly not helping me forget what this is doing to me. _He's_ not helping.

Perhaps I should just ask him to stop. Tell him that this is affecting me too deeply; tell him that I'm not sure I'll be able to cope with reality again once the dream of tonight is over.

But I won't do that, and there will be no one to blame but myself as always, when I wind up hurt and lost and alone. And I say always, but this is the first time. Not just with him but for me as well. Nothing has dug this deep before. No one has dug this deep.

I've never let anyone.

And this one is different, and it's not just the way he feels as his body slides hot against mine, hard and urgent and so damn _right_. This one means so much more to me than I want him to. This one's going to tear me into pieces and throw them into the flames he's fanning within me right at this moment.

And I'll let him. I'll probably beg him to do it.

I'm probably imagining the gentleness of his touch; probably making what I want of the damp hand stroking the long fringe back from my eyes. And for this moment I'm going to pretend that he's not just here for the sex; going to let myself believe that there might be nights beyond this one. Days even. Mornings. Evenings.

Lifetimes.

I know I'm foolish to set myself up in such a major fashion. But for now this is what I need and this is what I want more than I ever could have realised before this moment. And once it's over, the fall will be greater and I'll regret it - hate myself for it. But it's not over yet. I want to taste the sweetness of what will never be so that at least I'll have that memory when I no longer have these sensations.

And suddenly we're standing and I'm guiding him to my bedroom, although I'm not quite sure how I'm managing to move my limbs. I just want to hold him forever; only barely releasing him even now, making our progress more difficult than really necessary. 

But I don't care, because I'm postponing the inevitable moment when I'm going to have to face the truth. 

He's the one in control here, which makes sense, as he _is_ my boss, after all. I guess he's done this before, although I don't want to know. I don't want to know anything about _anyone_ he's been with in the past. For this moment at least I think I can pretend that I'm the only one.

And by God it's good.

And his kisses are so soft that I can almost believe that he's thinking the same as I am... feeling the things that I am... hoping the things that I am. And I would have thought that his arms would be looser or harsher or _something_. Just not this gentle, and not caressing me rather than just grabbing me to him as I would have expected them to. Just not like this.

Nothing like this.

It's almost as though he's loving me, rather than just shagging me. And I shouldn't be using that word - know I shouldn't - but somehow it creeps inside my thoughts anyway. And I try to push it aside but it just keeps on crawling back past my defences; past my attempts. Until it seems too hard to even try any more.

Until it's just so much easier to give in.

I can pretend all I like that I don't really care, but this isn't casual sex - could _never_ be casual. Not when he means so much to me, although I could never admit it. Not when this joining of our bodies is more a revelation than a release. Not when meeting his eyes... returning his smile... tasting his lips... speaks of beauty to me rather than just of lust.

Although that's there too.

And it's over too soon. Always too soon. I refuse to let him go yet. I still want to hold him - want to hold him forever. I need to memorise every curve and plane of his body while I still can. I need this. It's not a matter of want any more. It stopped being that long ago.  
And he's not making any protest, seeming to want (need?) this as much as I do. His mouth still seeks mine, although his kisses are languid now, his passion sated, even if his lips are not. His arms are still wrapped tight around me, his much smaller body fitting mine more truly than it rightfully should. And his eyes are still looking at me in the same way. 

As if he wants (needs?) me too.

"John," I begin, not knowing where my words are going, but somehow feeling the need to speak nonetheless.

"Um-hmm?" His voice is tired, satisfied - happy? I can't read his words, as much as I try.

"I..." I can't find the syllables, my tongue thick and my mind hazy and tumbled with thoughts I don't want to accept.

"Yeah?"

Gently prompting me, trying to entice the words from my uncooperative mouth. 

"That... that meant a lot to me."

And now his gaze is sharper, as if he's trying to read between my words, trying to find a deeper truth within. I feel exposed, threatened.

Waiting...

"Me too," is the eventual response.

A flicker of the eyes, a tentative smile and somehow I know that it's all going to be okay. That we're going to work this out - that I might actually be able to handle this, whatever ends up happening.

And, you know, his eyes are telling me that whatever it is, is going to be good. Fantastic...

The ultimate performance.


	8. EIGHT: Aftermath. Just another day at work?

_(Monday Morning. D.S. Boulton enters the CID office, looking as though he's actually in a good mood!)_

BOULTON: Good morning, everyone!

RAWTON: _(Whispered to Holmes)_ What's up with him?

HOLMES: _(Whispered back)_ I'm not sure I've ever _seen_ him happy before...

RAWTON: _(And again)_ Something's very wrong with this picture.

_(Boulton practically tosses his suit jacket onto the CID coat-stand [TM] and nearly bounces over to his desk, huge grin plastered on his face.)_

BOULTON: _(To Daly)_ Morning, Jeff!

DALY: _(Guarded)_ Uh... morning, John.

_(D.C. Skase enters the CID office, seeming to be in an equally good mood.)_

SKASE: Morning everyone!

_(By now, everyone else in CID is looking rather scared. Something's up with CID's two most petulant fellows...)_

LENNOX: _(Slowly)_ Uh... hello, Rodney...

SKASE: _(Placing his own leather jacket on the coat-stand and looking fondly at the familiar suit jacket on the hook beside it)_ Hi, Duncan! Wonderful morning, isn't it?

LENNOX: Uh... sure, sure...

_(He exchanges a 'look' with the others. Suddenly an expression of horror appears on his face.)_

LENNOX: _(Whispered)_ Oh dear God, don't tell me...

_(Around the office, the other members of the CID club are coming to the same conclusion. Bemused looks are flying all over the place. Skase and Boulton seem to be oblivious.)_

BOULTON: So - any leads on this affair with Barratt and Fielding?

_(It's just another day at work, really. Apart from the looks being exchanged between one particular Detective Sergeant, and one particular Detective Constable, that is...)_

 

****

FIN


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